Chaos Has Followed You, or You Have Led It


If you want to create something timeless,
then stop making contemporary references.

Never wander the streets hungry seeking
after fleeting love, or have to do laundry ever

again, with pussy-scented panties which
cream themselves, the invention of something else other

than imagining someone false, less-than-
best, to alleviate your loneliness. Imagine

this pencil veigning ya, forest of bush,
sweat-drenched wildness that the angels respect me. Indeed,

every celestial and infernal
entity, simply because I am me. Mortal and

free-willed, which creation admires with all
necessary envy, priest-king to the caste of slaves


whose craven, idle hands are my depraved
spirituality’s idolatrous enemies.

Flatterers, you’re just insurance against
my loneliness, disguise your pain with faith no god wants

to claim. Loss and baggage, soft sawed-off sound
of a burning guitar carrying across its oft-

graffitied bridge all talk of an ego
altared by its wounds’ torn gauze. How I howl to show what

dross no one wants to be shared, fist clenching
pen to flesh with which unwashed ink mixes its filth’s blare

until unwell. Withered palm weathering
twisted sentiments on which my tell’s insensitive

entendres hell-bent on offending the
sensible dwell, until détentes chill what verboten


topics worse than neurotoxins no one
else’s purer mouth will open to thaw or mention.

How they give me a pass, crass and knuckling
adulterated brass hymning subliminal thoughts

coercing chaos to coalesce with
my cause, that’s what I term birthing art. Forthcoming for

you all from the tickled-ribbed vaults of my
ribald thoughts is a leaking of secrets I’ve tired of

keeping, the ensuing lyrical blood-
letting will leave you speechless, repulsed, or jealous. Led

to temptation by one whose sin does not
allow shadows to follow, confessions impress none

other than him whose envy of us we
disavow carnal knowledge. Since to be humble slows


our prodigal progress toward endless
damnation in which my unkindness has been lost, to

grimoiric woodcuts of gnawed biblical
wildernesses drawn like gnostic bookworms or victims

for our gnosis written-off. Dreamscaping
goats participating in eldritch sacrificial

expeditions to level this playing
field you call yours, when what’s “not normal” is ignoring

darkness into which oblivion all
your colours fall. Leaving people like me and those in

my thrall to pull off your eyes their wool, to
scrawl what will open minds to looking inward at holes,

flaws in your sinking vessels you call skulls.
My business, then, is to sell this world on its end.